“Damn,” I thought to myself in the queue on Commercial Drive, smelling the melange of odours donated by several restaurants in mid-Drive business, various herbal vapours wafting past from patrons in need of their pneumonic medications, and a bit of bike smells, perfumery and human aromas. We had to line up on the curb to avoid blocking the strollers and becoming invalided by bikes on the sidewalk. I wished I knew more of One Crazy Frenchman’s first take on his alter ego. I wished I had seen it performed at that earlier Fringe.  

Havana is one of the Drive’s...